


Heaven Sent

by callmewirkmood



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 15:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmewirkmood/pseuds/callmewirkmood
Summary: Seventy-year-old Brian May thinks of Freddie on his birthday, the way he does every day.





	Heaven Sent

**Author's Note:**

> I do not claim to know Brian May or his views on religious matters personally. The views he expresses in this work of fiction were invented by me to serve the story.
> 
> Also: one day I may stop writing tearjerkers like these. But today is not that day. :)

_Happy Birthday dear Freddie. Feels like you're close by. Bri  
-Brian May, [September 5, 2018](https://www.instagram.com/p/BnVW9lPh0Uw/)_

*

As a man of science, Brian had been asked many times - sometimes on the record, and usually without prior warning - if he believed in God.

There was neither a short nor an easy answer to do that question justice, and he usually answered as noncommittally as the situation allowed so as not to offend anyone who might take what he said out of context or conclude that Brian May was a hater of religion when he really wasn't.

(It was easy to offend anyone these days, a little too easy if you asked him, but he was an old-fashioned type of bloke so what did he know? Either way, he had learned the hard way to be cautious in his dealings with the press and to weigh his words carefully at all times.)

Did he believe in God? Over the years, he'd gone back and forth on that one. He didn't believe in the Bible, for one thing. He put his faith in other things, like the laws of the cosmos, physics, things that could be empirically measured and proven or disproven. But even in the field of science, educated guesses sometimes had to be made in order to progress to the next level of understanding, and aside from an academic mind Brian also had an intuitive, spiritual side that he'd cultivated since he was a very young man, scribbling down poetry on scraps of paper that he found. Fortunately, those two sides of his personality had always coexisted quite peacefully.

He believed in miracles, too, having had the privilege of experiencing a few in his own lifetime. The fact that a piss poor Hampton lad and his scrappy homebuilt guitar had gone above and beyond anything he'd ever dared to dream of, playing the world's biggest stages with one of the most successful rock bands in history, couldn't just be chalked up to hard work alone. Sure, there'd been a lot of that too, but if there was one thing in which Brian suspected the hand of a higher power, whether it was some divine being or simple Fate, it was in the fact that he'd been fortunate enough to meet the three exceptional individuals with whom he'd formed this little band called Queen.

The fact that said band's story was currently being turned into a feature film was nothing short of a miracle, either. There was a sense of irony, perhaps, in the complicated genesis of the film (including but not limited to the initial miscasting, controversy surrounding the director and various other troubles), at times almost mirroring the band's own struggle for existence. But the winds of adversity had finally died down, the ship steaming for home, and Brian was grateful to be alive to see the day. Still, he'd rather have seen the project shelved than to have it finished by the wrong hands. Freddie deserved only the best, a homage worthy of the greatest entertainer and most extraordinary artist to ever grace the stage.

Freddie. Nary a day passed that Brian didn't think of his old friend at least once, especially so these last few years. Perhaps it was the film, seeing Rami, Gwilym and the gang reliving their heyday on set, or maybe it was simply because Brian was getting more and more prone to nostalgia the way old men did, but it seemed that Freddie was never far from his thoughts these days. He'd known the man for over twenty years - twenty intense, hard, surreal, but incredibly rewarding years - and a friendship like that stayed with you long after the person had gone.

As did the memories. Of the blood, sweat and tears they'd shed, the laughs and the joyous moments they'd shared. The meaningful conversations they'd had. To Brian, these were perhaps dearest of all - the times he and Freddie were able to just sit down and talk about their thoughts and views on the world. The quiet private time they'd been able to spend together at the very last had been all the more valuable for it, and there was a special, very private place in Brian's heart for the memories he'd taken away from those moments.

"Do you believe in Heaven?" Freddie had unexpectedly asked him once during one of Brian's visits to Garden Lodge. Once Freddie became bedridden, Brian had gone to see him as often as he could, and he knew that Roger and John had done the same. Sometimes Brian would just sit there with him in companionable silence, other times they would play Scrabble or bounce ideas back and forth about the album they'd been working on in Montreux. Even by that stage, Freddie could be outspoken and demanding in that charismatic way that had gotten him so far in life. And when he was tired and in a mood to just listen and be, he had no qualms about making that known, too.

"Ah, enough of this chit chat," he'd suddenly say, with an air of finality. "Come on, darling, play me something."

Always present in the bedroom were an acoustic guitar and an electronic keyboard that could be placed on Freddie's lap whenever he had the strength. Most of the time, though, he just wanted Brian to pick up the guitar and play to him. And because it was Freddie asking, Brian never refused, not even when his heart was dull with sadness for his friend. However, when Freddie asked him to play _Love Of My Life_ one afternoon, Brian balked at the suggestion. They'd performed that song together many times, just the two of them on stage, sharing a spotlight. It had always been one of Brian's favorite parts of the set, just the acoustic guitar and Freddie singing his romantic heart out. Those had been some of their best moments on stage. If Freddie passed, the song would have to die with him because there was no way Brian would be able to perform it without him. He felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

"No Fred, please, not _Love_ ," he'd protested, choking up in spite of himself. "Any song you want, but not that one. I just- I just can't go there."

"Why not?"

"Because-" Brian grappled for the words. "It's your song, Fred. And if you can't sing it, then-"

"It's a _Queen_ song," Freddie sat up a bit for emphasis, wincing at the effort but still managing to sound firm. "And you _will_ continue to play it after I'm gone, Brian, you hear? Promise me, darling."

It went without saying that Brian had caved to Freddie's insistence and made the promise before too long. And actually, once the time came, he had discovered that performing the song on stage was cathartic and comforting, a little ode to Freddie that helped him feel close to the man.

They'd spent quite a few peaceful hours in this fashion, Brian strumming away at the guitar and Freddie just watching him and listening, occasionally humming along or commenting on a new tune or particular riff that he liked. In the studio, it had always been a little nerve-wracking for Brian to play his compositions to Freddie for the first time, because there was no musician he respected more and his opinion was paramount. At the same time, there had been a rivalry between them - between all four members of the band, really - as to who could write the best song. But Brian never once felt that way at Garden Lodge. He was just thankful for every opportunity to get Freddie's feedback while he could, and to take Freddie's mind off the grim reality of his situation by way of the music they both loved so much.

The future was rarely talked about. So when Freddie asked him if he believed in Heaven, Brian was taken aback. Freddie had never struck him as the type to worry about what awaited his immortal soul. For a moment, he was tempted to respond with a little white lie, but Freddie was not so ill that he wouldn't have seen through that right away.

"No," he said truthfully, "I do not. Nor in Hell either. Do I believe that the spirit in some way endures? Yes, that I do. But as to how and in what way, I have no idea."

"Some scientist you are," Freddie teased him. "Well, if you're right, I'll have to find a way to let you know somehow. Send you some kind of message from beyond to prove I'm still around. In fact, I'll make a promise of it, how's that?"

As macabre as the joke was, Brian couldn't help but smile. Leave it to Freddie to be that callously morbid in the face of his own demise. "You'll come and rattle my kitchen cabinets in the dead of night just to prove a point?"

Freddie scoffed at that. "God no, I would never do anything that boring. Give me some credit here, May."

Brian had often thought back of this conversation in the wake of Freddie's passing. However, in the weeks and months that came after, no strange phenomena had occurred - granted, Brian had been utterly numb with grief, living in such a dark fog of depression for a time that a nuclear explosion could have gone off in his back yard and he would've missed it - and eventually he stopped looking for them. Over time he would develop his own strategies to cope with the bereavement - he would play Freddie's songs whenever he wanted to feel close to the man, he would go through pictures from the early days and smile at how young and cocky they all were. They exuded joy and a kind of disarming self-assuredness in those old photographs, four skinny boys intent on taking the world by storm in spite of the fact that they didn't have two shillings to rub together at the time, only their youthful arrogance and an untapped reservoir of raw talent. And ambition, yes, a lot of that too.

_Ah, to be young like that again._

Climbing down from his exercise bike not entirely gracefully, Brian grabs a towel from the wardrobe and sets off for the bathroom to take a shower, pausing for a moment to wipe his sweaty face and study his reflection in the mirror with a sense of wonder. _How terribly strange to be seventy_. Granted, he doesn't feel seventy inside, not by a long shot; whenever he looks in the mirror, he still expects to see a younger, thinner version of himself, a thicker mane of brown curls, and he's let down every time. Not that he has any right to complain - he's in relatively good health and shape, all things considered. If the old body continues to cooperate, he has years left in him yet and he intends to wring them dry for every last drop. But the passing of time and the havoc it wreaks on the human body is truly one of life's most bewildering things. At the very least, Freddie was spared that. In the mind of the people, he would always be young and full of vigor and brawn, the way he was when he set the world on fire at Live Aid. Brian can't imagine Freddie would have borne the aging process very gracefully. But it sure would have been lovely if instead of going to a business meeting later this afternoon, Brian would have been able to take a taxi to Kensington and raise a glass to Freddie's birthday at Garden Lodge instead, along with Roger and John. Smiling wistfully, he turns away to continue on to the bathroom.

As he does this, his gaze is caught by a little object on the floor that oughtn't to be there, lying in plain sight in the middle of the corridor. It looks vaguely familiar somehow, and he bends down to pick it up. Upon closer inspection, it turns out to be a thumb-sized square of plastic, one that bears an uncanny resemblance to-

Well, to a Scrabble letter tile.

Baffled, Brian turns the piece around and holds it up between his thumb and forefinger, wondering what on earth it's doing on the floor. If memory serves him, the last time Scrabble was played in this house was weeks ago, when his daughter visited, and the place has been vacuumed several times since then. Did it stick to somebody's shoe and-

He looks again. It's the letter Q.

All of a sudden, there's a chill running up his spine, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and out of nowhere he is struck by the overwhelming feeling that if he were to look over his shoulder now, he would see Freddie standing there with a cheeky grin on his face. He doesn't cave to the urge, though, instead burying his face in the towel as his hand closes around the tiny plastic object, clutching so hard that he can feel its angular edges press into his skin.

In the idle hours inherent to traveling and touring with a band, Brian had often had the pleasure of annihilating his bandmates at Scrabble, but never more so than when he put down the word 'lacquers' one time and was able to add 168 points to his score in one fell swoop. God, they'd raised hell over that, cussing him out in terms that would have made a priest cross himself. Especially Freddie, who'd always had a colorful vocabulary. All in good humor, of course, but still - winning at Scrabble was a matter of pride for all of them and in terms of single word score, Brian's 'lacquers' was in a league of its own, and they never let him forget it.

Brian stands there like that for a long time, fingers trembling as he presses his fist to his mouth and then to his chest, keeping his eyes closed to draw whatever this moment is out for as long as he can. Yes, he feels the presence of Freddie close by. This isn't like those times when he heard a voice that sounded familiar for a moment or glimpsed someone on the street or in a crowd who had a similar enough look to make him do a double take. This isn't like putting on one of their records and having a good cry to the sound of Freddie's incredible voice and the memories it never fails to evoke. No - he feels him, _smells_ him almost, as vividly as though Freddie could touch him and speak any second now, fondly teasing him the way he used to do.

_"Almost didn't recognize you there, Maggie May. There's a bit more of you than the last time we met. But I'd know that crazy mop of hair anywhere."  
_

Or something to that effect. And then he'd laugh that uproarious, infectious laugh of his.

Brian slowly opens his eyes and looks at the tile in his hand, his gaze wandering over to a framed picture of the band on his wall that he's always kept, with Freddie right where he belongs: front and center between them, smiling uninhibitedly. When he was among friends, Freddie didn't care about hiding his teeth.

Brian is smiling too. Shaking and crying like a baby at what he's just experienced, yes, but at the same time suffused with such a sense of gratitude and _peace_ that it doesn't matter in the slightest. It is as if someone just put a warm blanket around him in a cold night, a gesture of care and affection he will take with him long after this moment has passed.

"You arse," he softly mutters, wiping at his eyes as if that has any chance of stopping the flood of joyful tears. "You just had to wait 27 bloody years to do that, didn't you?"


End file.
